


rigidity

by highwayfawn (orphan_account)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/highwayfawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>now she gets the feeling that he's more afraid of her than she is of him, reminiscent of a wild animal - though he has sharp teeth, claws to defend himself, he's got an instinctive wariness ingrained in him; when you're forced to survive or die from the start of your life fear runs deep, sinks into bone. It's in the way he postures himself, holds himself like he's always ready for a swing that doesn't come, muscles taut, shoulders stiff, fingers twitching at his sides. When her fingers drag down his bicep, feather-light, she can feel the barely there tremble that comes with the strain of holding a muscle tense for too long; he's nervous around her, and it almost makes her laugh if it didn't make her want to cry - she knows, from being a police officer's wife, that this kind of rigidity is beaten into a person, body stiffened by years of flinching from hundreds of blows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rigidity

Lori wakes up for the fourth time in one night, stomach curling uneasily, legs stiff and numb, and this time she can't hold it. She's been getting nauseous every night, restless and sick, but she's managed to keep it down for the most part - occasionally something upsets her more than others and she finds herself kneeling in the grass on the outskirts of camp, fingers dinging into dirt as her stomach clenches and rolls, emptying itself until she's dry heaving painfully, Glenn or T-Dog or Maggie rubbing her shoulder until she can manage to stand without wanting to puke her guts out onto the grass. Tonight Daryl had brought a fat raccoon back to camp; the grease made her stomach roll, rumbling unsettlingly but she'd eaten her fill and then some, hungry from days of eating nothing but canned peas and rice, and she's paying for it now. 

She stumbles into the field, manages to get down on her knees before her stomach empties itself violently, clutching her belly. In the periphery of her vision she can see somebody standing watch, head turned towards her - _please God, don't let it be Rick, please_ \- and when she manages to lift her head between heaves she sees that it's Daryl, walking towards her, feet silent in the night air, what little noise he makes swallowed by the sound of harsh wind; she watches him draw near before her stomach lurches again and she spits up frothy acid onto the dirt. He stands guard over her, bow at the ready, arms tight and tense, ready for any threat that might come ambling out from the treeline. 

When she's finally done she spits, trying to wash the acrid taste from her mouth before she stands.

"You alright?" Daryl asks, voice low, a hushed rumble as he peers through the darkness at her. She nods, shaky from the strain of heaving her guts out, muscles trembling, eyes watering at the burn in her throat, and manages a weak smile. He nods back at her, eyes cautious. "You sure?"

"Yeah," she breathes in response, "I don't think that raccoon agreed with me, though." She huffs a half-laugh, but he remains unconvinced, barely-veiled worry in his eyes as he watches her; she's learned in these recent months that Daryl is fiercely protective of anybody he considers his own, and sometime since the farm's ruin she's fallen into that category - his eyes slide to her pregnant belly every time a walker gets close, like his sole duty is to protect her unborn baby, and he's taken to leaving extra food in her bag when he thinks she's not looking. The first time it was a bag of chips, still crisp in the colorful sealed plastic, and a week later she unearthed a chocolate bar hidden at the bottom of her bag and almost cried, holding the wrapped candy to her chest like it was precious; she didn't find out who was hiding things in her clothes for another few weeks, assuming Rick was the culprit, or maybe T-Dog with his soft eyes and kind heart, until one night she'd watched Daryl slink over to the van she shared with Carol and Beth, slide something out of his pocket and stick it in her backpack before wandering off to meet with the rest of the group by the fire. He leaves things for Carol, too, and sometimes Beth, little goodies he's picked up on runs that would be useless to the majority of the group, comfort items, but out of all of them food is distributed to Lori the most, and she's thankful for it, knowing that with Daryl's hunting skill and his habit of leaving gifts for her to find her baby isn't going to die of starvation before it takes its first breath. 

Out of everybody in the group, Lori thinks Daryl is both the hardest and easiest to read - at a glance he is rough, calloused and dirty from a life that everybody else is just now growing accustom to, years of survival etched into his skin in the form of fine wrinkles and thick scars; he's got edges sharp enough to cut yourself on, a dog that's spent too much time in the company of wolves to be a house-pet and yet he isn't _wild_ , just feral - the building blocks are there, he just needs to learn how to be domesticated. And Lori believes he's getting there, slowly, every time she watches him brush his side against Rick's, every time he smiles at one of Glenn's jokes or gives Beth's shoulder a cautious squeeze, like he's trying not to break her, like he thinks his own touch will dirty her but he does it anyway because he knows when people need comfort and he _tries_. He's jagged around the edges but he's got a warm heart, it just needs some care, a little assistance before he can let his guard loosen, put his weapons down. 

Right now he's watching her like he thinks she's full of shit and, taking a risk, Lori puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, more feeling than seeing the light flinch he gives when her palm makes contact with his skin; she almost yanks her hand back, almost turns and walks away (Rick flinches now, too, and she's beginning to wonder if maybe her touch is acidic, burning) but she stills herself, holds her open hand flat against the sharp jut of his shoulder blade. 

Daryl isn't used to being touched - she's known that from the very start. The only person she's ever seen him lean towards was Merle, and lately Rick, on the occasion that they're far enough away from the group to talk privately, standing hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder, and she's seen him edge away from even those two; Merle was loud and careless and would sometimes startle Daryl so bad he'd jump from where he sat, fingers curled dangerously around the hilt of his knife, eyes wide. Rick takes more care, eases himself into Daryl's space like he's approaching a stray dog, but even he missteps sometimes, misjudges Daryl's awareness and Daryl will jerk away, breathing hard from unexpected touch.

She used to see that constant tension as something to be feared, a threat; Daryl is whip-sharp and fast, eyes narrow and cautious, and he could kill her without breaking a sweat, easy as breathing if he wanted to, if she approached him wrong or just if he _felt like it,_ and though she knows now that he's a good man her first impression of him - truthfully, when he first joined the group she saw him as nothing but an extension of his brother - was a thief, violent and calculating, maybe worse. Andrea had said, after Lori had caught Daryl watching her, narrow-eyed as he whittled at one of his handmade arrows, that she'd better watch out for him, " _I get the feeling that guy'd go Deliverance on a girl if he got the chance._ "

Though Daryl and Andrea got on quickly after that Lori had held her distance, kept a guard up for a long time, thinking about how his arms could choke her with ease, hands quick with a knife, body tense and ready to snap into action at the slightest provocation; now she gets the feeling that he's more afraid of her than she is of him, reminiscent of a wild animal - though he has sharp teeth, claws to defend himself, he's got an instinctive wariness ingrained in him; when you're forced to survive or die from the start of your life fear runs deep, sinks into bone. It's in the way he postures himself, holds himself like he's always ready for a swing that doesn't come, muscles taut, shoulders stiff, fingers twitching at his sides. When her fingers drag down his bicep, feather-light, she can feel the barely there tremble that comes with the strain of holding a muscle tense for too long; he's nervous around her, and it almost makes her laugh if it didn't make her want to cry - she knows, from being a police officer's wife, that this kind of rigidity is beaten into a person, body stiffened by years of flinching from hundreds of blows. His readiness isn't a readiness to kill but a readiness to run, to fight back if he's backed into a corner, to protect himself and his people from a threat. 

So she tries to be gentle around him, warn him of her presence when she approaches him, talk quietly if he's nearby. She's seen scars, jagged lines of raised pink peeking out from underneath the hem of his shirt, and she doesn't wish to open any of them, doesn't want to make more - this silent kinship between them goes both ways.

He's standing statue-still in front of her, but she can feel when his muscles loosen, not completely but a gradual ease, eyes narrowed and swimming with caution when she takes her hand off his arm. She lets her arm fall to her side, fingers bunching the hem of her shirt, clenching dirty fabric; suddenly she feels embarrassed, self conscious as he stares at her - she's covered in dirt and sweat and old blood, she stinks, her hair is framing her face wildly in a tangle of greasy curls and she's just vomited everywhere and maybe the apocalypse isn't a good time to get shy but here she is, in front of Daryl Dixon of all people, wishing she could sink into the ground itself (she'd fit right in - she must be about forty percent dirt by now, dust caked thick onto her tacky skin) because she's a mess and he won't quit looking, eyes trained on hers like he's trying to pry her open, see what's inside.

It's not even the worst he's seen her at - last week she woke to wet thighs and, for a moment, panicked, thinking that her water had broken before she smelled the sharp odor of urine clouding the air inside of the car and she'd been so horrified, half-thankful Rick had stopped sleeping beside her months before; this pregnancy is rougher than it was with Carl, the baby kicks and turns and presses against her bladder at the worst of times. She'd slipped out from the car, waddling awkwardly out into the clearing clutching a fresh pair of pants until she was far enough away from the camp to change safely, and just as she'd unbuttoned her jeans she heard the soft crunch of leaves under heavy boots - Daryl, standing uncomfortably a few feet away, had lowered his eyes and turned his head, crossbow loaded in his hands, like he was her own personal bodyguard, watching the woods attentive as a doberman as she stripped and changed.

Her face had turned bright red; there was no way he didn't know why she'd come out, and she muttered a flustered apology, ready to make a quick escape but he'd put a hand on her shoulder as she turned from him and said, " _Hey._ " Cleared his throat awkwardly, "'S fine. Nothin' to be embarrassed about, neither; I can't count how many times Merle'd come home wasted, black out and piss his pants. Half the time I was the one that had to help him get changed, too. Least you got a good reason that ain't bein' shit-face drunk." He'd nodded towards her swollen belly, taken his hand off her shoulder and escorted her back to the safety of the car (she left the door open for a few minutes, after, clearing the air of the smell and her embarrassment) and she'd thanked him, soft, still red-faced and a little mortified but genuinely grateful, and he'd just nodded and wandered back to his post, standing soldier-straight as he watched the perimeter. 

Then he had hardly met her eyes, watched her feet out of courtesy, unwilling to embarrass her further. Now he watches her openly, squinting in the darkness, and she feels ashamed under his gaze, like she's being scrutinized, and it wouldn't be unreasonable - she's just thrown up a sizable amount of valuable food, food that _he_ provided, and she'd hate her a little too if she was standing in his place. She's waiting for him to scowl at her, jerk away for her touching him or snap about wasting what little food he managed to scrounge up, but.

His hand meets her skin, mirroring her gesture; his palm spans over the bony plane of her shoulder, fingertips brushing her shoulder blade, the heel of his palm against her collarbone, heat from his skin sinking into her sore muscles.

"You ever need anythin'," he says, eyes still on hers, serious, unguarded, "and you don't wanna go to Rick, you come to me, alright?"

Lori stares up at him, wide-eyed and comprehending; Daryl may not be offering a shoulder to cry on but he's trying to give comfort, in any way he knows how, and it's a giant leap from his callous entrance, the long weeks of angry silence, closed off and dangerous before he learned how to be around people, before they managed to coax him into an uneasy truce. A long second slips by before she nods firmly. "Yessir," she huffs, smiling, and he slides his hand down her shoulder, gives her a light shove and turns his eyes to the woods, moment clearly over, but still it isn't tense, isn't awkward, and when she peeks up she sees a smirk gracing the corner of his mouth, barely-there but it _means_ something from him, the steely man who hardly ever smiles, the man she, two months ago, was fearful of. 

She shoves him back, light and playful, and for the first time since she's known Daryl Dixon, he doesn't flinch.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lori peeing her pants and daryl awkwardly making her feel better about it was too fucking funny to not write okay - in all seriousness though i feel like this relationship definitely wasn't explored enough on the show, and it's such an odd and interesting dynamic; something about the way they would fit together as quiet, awkward friends just draws me to them, idk


End file.
